Walden's Miscellaneous Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

We have a young lady to whom this poem is dedicated, who is my table-mate. She is bright and intelligent; and I am sure any one coming into her presence, and conversing with her, or, if circumstances permit, hearing her read some of her essays, cannot return without feeling that he had been in company with one who represents her race honorably.

I have often thought from her punctuality in attendance at church, that every one might learn a lesson, which no one can teach, only those who practice the same.

Now, I regard those questions as did I those frequently asked in our late war, “If the colored people could bear arms and fight for their country?” “Could they be made loyal citizens, or lifted from a state of degradation, from under the scales in which men are weighed, and put upon the platform of common manhood?” We answered those questions with the sword and by the ballot; and, likewise, the Indians will answer these important questions in perhaps twenty years to come, if they are justly dealt with. They only ask our Government to give them good and true men, and they will do their part.

While sitting in my room kind Miss,
I thought I'd sing a praise,
But now I think I'll write a word,
To lighten up thy days.

It's true I often write on Queens,
And those of noble fame;
But now I seek to write a line
Upon thy honored name.

What 's in thy name moves me to write,
This little verse on thee?
Perhaps it is thy pleasant ways,
And cheering looks to me.

How oft I think of thee, kind Miss,
And oft admire thy grace,
Because I know that thou art of
Another noble race!

When by the bells to meals we're called,
Or round the table meet,
With anxious eye I look to see
If thou art in thy seat.

And then I cast my eyes around,
Through hall, though long and wide,
And then I quickly look to see
Thy tea-mate by thy side.

But first of all the bell is rung,
And each within his place,
In silence each one bows his head,
'Till some one asks the grace.

Then each in seat with upturned plates,
And scarce a word is said,
Until we have a full supply
Of meats and baker's bread.

And dishes, too, are passing round
About from you and me;
And Clara she looks up and asks—
Pray, sir, what can it be?

It 's pork, of course, or else it 's beef;
Perchance it may be ham—

Except the baker cooked a goose,
And passed it off for lamb.

And if he has a cut will tell,
If round about its swallow,
For surely it is not so dead,
That it would fail to halloo.

While all of this is going on,
There 're other things in view;
For oft I catch myself, dear Miss,
Exchanging looks with you.

But soon we 're through, the bell does ring,
We 're called by duty's 'larms;
Nor can I longer sit and look
Upon thy brilliant charms.

I 'd speak of all my table mates
Had I another pen,
For surely we 're as happy guests
As here have ever been.